Pravda (51 page)

Shit!
The door was opening. He sprang upright, yelling, awoken, hoarse.

"Jesus, Is. Fucking hell. What are you
doing?"

"Ssshh. Ssshh. It's okay." She was standing just inside the room, the light from the hall behind her shadowing her face.

"It's not fucking okay. Jesus
Christ."
He stared at his sister.

"Ssssh. There are police downstairs. They don't know you are here. You were dreaming, Gabs. You were asleep. That's all. Ssssh." She closed the door behind her, but then it was completely dark again.

"Dear God, woman."

"Gabs, where is the light?"

"No! Don't you dare turn it on." He held up his hand in anticipation of the glare. "Use the side lamp."

"Okay." Leaving a crack of light from the door, she crossed the room and got to the desk.

"You scared the living shit out of me, Isabella." He was shivering from a cold sweat, and his heart would not go back to normal.

She found the switch and twisted the Anglepoise so the bulb lit the sloping attic wall behind, stretching the shadows.

"Get dressed." She was looking at him with the widest smile he had ever seen her manage. "You have to come. You have to come now. With me. Get dressed."

"Where?"

"Now, come
on.
Get dressed."

"Isabella,
what?"
He was recovering.

"You have to come with me." She beckoned. "I'll tell you everything in the cab."

"What in the name of fuck is this about? What are you
doing?"

"Will you please just get dressed? Please, Gabs. Please. I can't explain everything here now. You are wasting time." Her face implored him. "There's a cab waiting. The driver has already tried to rip me off."

"Is, you can't just—"

"Gabs, please, I am. Come on." She was picking his clothes up off the floor.

"If this is about—"

"It's nothing to do with Dad." She paused. "Or this morning. Just please, please,
please
come on. Hurry."

He looked at her directly for a moment, holding out his jeans in the strange light thrown by the lamp, her eyes dark like his own; hurt contending with forgiveness, injury with loyalty, hostility with the closest lifelong kinship—kinship all the way back, and further. Further. Maybe
that
was the point. Something altered in the chemistry of his body. Almost against his will, aggression and anxiety deserted him; it was one of only two or three times in his life that he had felt the reality of his and Isabella's being twins—the actuality of it—in his twinned blood running, in his twinned heart beating.

"How did you get in here?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "If you come with me and it's anything, anything at all, that you think is me being a stupid cow or
wasting time, then I promise, I absolutely promise, you don't have to speak to me ever again."

"Is, for Christ's sake. I'm never not going to speak to you."

"You would. You'd never say another word to me again if you thought it was a matter of principle."

"Same goes for you," he returned.

She threw his pullover at him. "But then, this isn't a matter of principle or whatever," she said. "It's get-your-fucking-clothes-on time."

He shook his head. "I thought I was way ahead in the race for insanity, but you've come right back into the frame tonight, I don't mind telling you. It's neck-and-neck again." He cast back the duvet. "I'm sorry for being such a total arsehole this morning. Where are we going?"

"Don't worry—that was another lifetime ago."

"Feels like it."

"We are both complete arseholes—no getting away from it." She picked up his coat, which was draped over the desk chair. "But I suppose one of us has always been hanging on to the safety rope to haul the other back before. I think we both leaped over the edge together this morning, that's all. We're just going over to Kentish Town. Now get
dressed."

"Okay, okay, okay." He put on the pullover over the T-shirt he was wearing. "But seriously, Is. I am going mad. I'm really worried ... I mean it. I'm not just saying ... I've been in bed all day. It's been terrible. And now, just now—I had this dream."

"You're not going mad. You're seriously bereaved. You've left two girlfriends, whom you probably love, for no reason other than that there are two of them. You hate your job. You hate you father. Both with very good reason. You think that ninety percent of everything is total shit. And you're right. You've fallen out with me, the only family you have left. You haven't got any real money. You don't own anything. And you have no idea what to do with the rest of your life. You're pissed off. Seriously pissed off. Who wouldn't be? Even I would be pretty pissed off if I were you."

"Thanks." He stood and slithered into his jeans. "You missed one thing."

"What?"

"I've also just been burgled."

"I know." She started to laugh out loud.

He sat back down to drag on his socks. "Welcome to my life. Please, go ahead, laugh." He nodded sarcastically, but there was humor in his voice now. "This is one of the best bits. In a minute I am going to get into a very expensive cab with a total head case, also for no reason, and we are both going to speed as fast as we can to fuck knows where."

"I'm sorry, Gabs." She looked around her for the first time. The room was a mess: everything on the floor. "Laptop?"

"Gone."

"Scanner? Printer?"

"Gone. Everything gone."

"Fucking hell."

"But at least my sister is soothing to be around." He bent to tie the laces of his boots. "Anyway, what do you mean you know? How do you know?"

"The police are downstairs interviewing your flatmates. They're all in a state. One of them is shitting it because he's got drugs stashed in his room. One of the others is crying about his computer. That girl, what's-her-name, is saying that she feels like she's been violated."

"So much fun in one day."

"They thought you were out."

"Why?"

"Because your door was locked and you didn't answer when they banged."

"The door
was
locked. And no, I didn't answer. Why did they let you up?"

"I said I had a spare key."

"You are such a liar." He looked around for his wallet. "How did you get in?"

"You left the key in the door," she said.

"I left the key in the door in case anyone
did
have a spare key." He put on his coat.

"So I poked the key out onto a piece of paper on the floor and then dragged it under the door."

He shook his head in genuine consternation. "What are we going to tell the police?"

"They're all in the kitchen in the basement. If we leg it, we'll be fine."

"Seems a bit suspicious, given the general state of things."

Isabella said, "Okay. You go, and I'll tell them you aren't here."

"Jesus. Why am I never allowed to be where I actually
am
in my life?"

Outside, the sleet had finally made up its mind and a thin, ethereal snow was falling, though with no chance of sticking to the streets, which were running wet. The driver had turned and was idling on the other side of the road. Gabriel crossed and stood waiting behind the cab in case someone other than his sister came out. He was struck by the thought that Grafton Terrace looked oddly beautiful now—the street, unusually wide for London, stately even, broad enough for the cars to park diagonally to the curb, and the tall white terraces, London brick, London stucco, with the people warm and snug in so many rooms, and the streetlamps with their halos of light and flurry. Isabella appeared in the doorway, ran down the steps, and motioned to him to get in. He was no great lover of the word, but, well, it looked ... on the way to Christmasy. Numinous. Maybe the snow would stick overnight.

The meter had already climbed past thirty pounds. The cabbie did not turn to look at them but spoke into his driver-to-passenger microphone. "Back to the pub then, is it?"

Isabella answered, "Yes. Back to the pub."

"No problem, love."

They braced themselves for the speed bumps.

Gabriel s curiosity was a starving crocodile. "Okay. Tell me."

"No.I ... I can't't tell you in the cab."

"Isabella, you
said
you d tell me."

"Another lie."

"Tell me."

"Gabs, I honestly can t. I need you to understand all this for yourself. The same way I have."

"Understand
what?
This better be—"

"You won't guess." She looked at him, her eyes glassy and bright. "I don't want to guess."

"Well, don t, then."

"I can't think of anything that you would come and get me for like this."

"Please, honestly, we'll be there in five minutes and then you'll understand. Everything will be clear. Everything in your whole life."

He looked across.

There was so much excitement in the air, raw and crackling, that
he could almost taste it, like the near singe of lightning. He realized that the two of them were probably very close to hysteria, but he didn't care.

She paid the cabdriver his filthy millions, but she was first in through the door just the same. And for an awful, stalling second she thought she'd made the biggest mistake of her life. She had not even brought the letter. Gabriel would think that she was...

No. There he was.

Thank God.

He had just moved seats for some reason. She hurried over. She'd been gone, what? Half an hour, maybe more. She was aware—madly, peripherally—of two men talking about her as she passed their table. He was now sitting at a place for four, by the wall, underneath some fake-old advertisement for laundry detergent.

"Hi, Arkady, hi ... Sorry, sorry it took longer than I thought. My brother was asleep and everything. Are you okay?" She bit her tongue. She was treating him like a child.

"Yes. I am okay."

"You moved tables."

"Yes, I moved the table—because now there is three of us and it seems a good idea."

She looked over her shoulder. Gabriel was inside the door, looking around. She felt a sudden surge of loyalty as she motioned toward him.

He came over.

"Lovely place," Gabriel said.

"Gabriel, this is Arkady. We met last week when I was helping you move."

"Hi." Gabriel offered his hand.

"Hello." The Russian stood. And she watched the two very different men greet each other the way men do—serious, eye to eye, shaking as if to affirm some ancient rite that women could know nothing about.

"Oh Christ," Gabriel said, sudden understanding declaring itself in his face. "Sorry. Your e-mail, last weekend—oh, sorry. I am so sorry. I wasn't there. I completely forgot. I was ... I was moving."

"It is nothing." The Russian seemed oddly cheered.

"But you ran into Is?" Gabriel asked.

She smiled.

Arkady appeared puzzled.

"You met Isabella—last weekend," Gabriel said.

"Yes."

"Thank God for that. I am so sorry." Gabriel shook his head. "Various problems."

"I understand."

Gabriel asked, "Who wants a drink?"

"Arkady, do you want some more tea?" This from Isabella.

"You're drinking tea?" This from Gabriel.

"Yes, we are. Arkady doesn't drink."

Arkady himself spoke. "Maybe once a year. Maybe tonight I drink."

"You ever had a Guinness?" Gabriel asked.

"No."

Gabriel grinned. "Well, this is a good time to start. Made for weather like this. When it's not cold enough for vodka and too cold for normal beer. I'll get you one. Is?"

"Vodka lime."

He nodded.

"For Christ's sake, hurry up, Gabs. Arkady has some important information."

"And you are such a freak. Okay. I'm hurrying."

She sat down with the Russian. She felt that she might chew through her own cheeks. She felt nervous and insane and serene all at the same time. Part of her was staggered afresh by how quickly Gabriel could interpret a situation. (Even though he had no idea what was to come, already he had gleaned that this was Arkady's first time in London. He was putting the man at his ease as she never could.) And another part of her was attempting to be as normal as possible with Arkady and stop treating him like an endangered species from the most precious part of Russia.

Gabriel stood at the bar, conscious that Isabella was looking up at him and then back at Arkady, as if either one were about to die or give birth. He turned away to place his order.

The thought occurred that she was about to announce she was getting married—some hungry-looking Russian she had met two hours ago, and bang, they'd hurried straight to the nearest gastro-pub to seal the bond. He's the one. Hates all forms of convention. Loves music and doing what he damn well pleases in any kind of company. After all these years, it had taken her only two hours to
know
...True love—despite everything that happened in the desperate burning world, you still had to factor it in.

He himself was recovering now. Glad to be out of that accursed room. Most of all, he was eager—desperate—to discover how well the man had known his mother. He must have spent a fair amount of time with her, for Isabella to come in person to his own pit of despair. He hoped that they would become friends. Arkady was roughly his own age.

He turned, carrying the drinks. And he felt that sudden warm feeling suffuse him—the feeling of being sheltered inside on a winter's night, of cheer and good company. Yes, he was looking forward to a long evening, listening to Arkady's stories from Petersburg, eating together, talking, real things. The snow too made him ache for Russia. He could see it falling now through the plain glass of the upper windows, still thin and wispy, but falling nonetheless.

He placed the drinks carefully on their table and sat down.

"Here you go."

"Thank you," Arkady said.

"Is."

"Thanks." His sister looked as though she were about to collapse from some kind of overwhelming excitement or pain or something.

"Is, are you all right? Do you need to take your medicine or go to the loo or something?"